Part 11

The important information of the oil driller had added a mighty element to the matters with which he was evidently concerned. The horse, left to his own inclinations, quickened his pace and presently the shadow of a huge house loomed upon the crest of the hill at the roadside. The horse stopped at the gate, and the man. aroused from his reverie, dismounted slowly, and opening the gate led the horse through; as he closed the gate he stopped for a moment and rested his enormous elbow on the latch. “Well,” he said, as though announcing his temporary conclusion to himself, “I'll ship the cattle to-morrow, and I'll see Jerry.”

II

FROM the earliest record of events, either sacred or profane, the genus Bos has been associated with the history of the landowner. The Ancient Egyptian saw in him certain traces of divinity, and honored it with proper recognition. The lamented Job, erstwhile poet of calamity, found time amid the recording of his numerous disasters to set down his venerable appreciation of the species; and the pagan Homer, while singing of gods and men, remembered to sing also the virtues of the noble bullock; and the painters, too, from Claude Lorraine to Rosa Bonheur, have deigned to consider the artistic importance of the domesticated kine; treating him first as a necessary adjunct to a landscape, and later as a central figure in the scene. He has had his part, say the records, not infrequently with the plans of men, virtuous and otherwise. A certain wily barbaric general used him well in a difficult emergency, and the patriarch Jacob used him in a shrewd physiological experiment, which he had probably learned at Padan-aram in his salad days; an experiment that added much to the worldly worth of the good father, but detracted not a little from his fame.

When the sun climbed up from behind the broad eastern hillside on the following morning it looked down upon Rufus Alshire, who, far more expeditious than itself, had already set himself to the affairs of the day; before the dawn he had brought the cattle from their beds in the cool pasture land, weighed them at his scales and turned them out in the road on their journey to the shipping station some ten miles away. The herd strayed leisurely along the highway. The giant Alshire rode through the drove, keeping the bullocks moving slowly; while following the herd barefoot in the dust, was one of his retainers, a half-witted youth, wearing an ancient straw hat, a shirt originally of the material called “hickory,” but now patched in variegated colors, and blue cloth trousers well worn and frayed. As the youth tramped along he sang in a high piping voice one of those simple little songs which the playing children sing, and by way of illustration danced up and down and whipped the dust with a long hickory switch. On his heart was no shadow of the cares of men, and for this reason, perhaps, under his torn shirt was two-thirds of the happiness of the world.

As the herd wandered along under the great oaks that lined the roadway and the rays of the morning sun crept down through the green leaves, making queer mottled spots on the sleek cattle and brilliant shifting patches on the dewy grass, one looking on could easily have come to believe that the world had turned back some several hundred years, and this was a grassy forest glade of merry England, and the herd, cattle of the gruff, gigantic Saxon who rode among them on his huge red horse, scowling under his black brows and cursing by St. Withold and St. Dunstan and the soul of Hengist the evil times of the Conqueror that forced him to drive his herd into the thick forest at daybreak in order to preserve it from the marauding cut-throats of a Norman baron; and he would have looked close for great stones half-bedded in the moss, lasting monuments to the weird and bloody rites of some stern Druid colony long dead; and then glanced up sharply to see if that patch of thicker green in the deeper woods were not indeed the coat of some gallant outlaw whose bosom was English, and who stood ready with his yew bow and his cloth-yard shaft to join the huge Saxon in his stubborn fight against the bloody followers of Duke William of Normandy; and when the herd had wandered by one would have leaned over in the road to see if there was not a brass collar soldered fast around the neck of the happy cowherd, graven in Saxon letters with this inscription: “Zaak, the son of Jonas, is thrall to Rufus of Alshire.”

The cheery sunshine under the dear arch of blue, with its homely noises of awakening life and its cool breath, ladened with the fresh odor wafted from meadows of clover springing up with sweet new blossom after the harvest, all so conducive to careless, joyous existence, failed utterly to remove any portion of the anxiety from the face of the grazier.

He sat listlessly in his saddle, with his gray eyes half-closed and the muscles of his face drawn down in furrows; the red roan, trained from his colt days, assumed the duties of his master, and moved carefully among the cattle; his equine intelligence appreciating that it was a part of his duty to the indolent master, to see that the drove kept moving slowly, and that no bullock stopped to crop the wet grass by the roadside, or fight with his fellow.

The watches of the night had brought to Rufus Alshire no solution of the matter with which he had struggled so persistently during the evening before. He was acting, it was true, upon his temporary plan, but that seemed but an incident in the main vexatious problem.

The giant was now entirely oblivious of his environment, and deep in his troublous matter he spoke aloud. “If I could only hold the title,” he muttered, and then, as if realizing the folly of his hope, he gripped the tree of his saddle with his hand and straightened his mighty foot suddenly in the stirrup. The leather snapped under the great weight, and the iron stirrup dropped into the road. The red roan stopped short, and the huge Alshire, pronouncing some severe malediction on his ponderous size, dismounted, picked up the stirrup and tied it to the strap. Then he slipped the bridle rein over his aim and, walking along beside the horse, began to examine the herd with the critical eye of an expert, and comment thereon with the artlessness of a child.

“Beef for the British.” he said, “and as good beef as John Bull ever put under his ribs. They are broad on the backs and deep in the brisket and heavy in the quarters, and every black calf of them made the beam kick sixteen hundred pounds.”

The grazier slapped his horse fondly on the neck. “They 'll please the Jews, won't they, boy?” The red roan pricked up his ears and rubbed his nose against his master's arm, as though this statement was quite in accord with his own private views of the matter. “They will ship well over the sea.” The giant laughed. “And by gad! if the rotten ships hold together the black brutes will get a blamed sight nearer to the Queen than most of the little snobs ambling around in the East.”

The herd of Rufus Alshire belonged to that species of beef cattle termed Polled-Angus, native to the lowlands of Scotland; a breed of comparatively recent importation. They were fine bullocks, full, round, and comely in form; hornless, trim of head and neck, and with coats as black as the fabled spirit of midnight. The law of natural selection had finally indicated this breed as best adapted to the conditions of the West Virginia grazier. It was hardy, easily maintained, and endured the rigor of the winter without distress, beside it was quick to mature and gained flesh rapidly, and then, too, the absence of horns rendered it easier to handle and far less dangerous.

The horn, a necessary and powerful weapon in the wild state, was in the state of domestication a useless incumbrance Hence nature, laboring for the convenience of men, thrust in and produced the Polled-Angus.

The business of the grazier had been progressive. The powerful landowner, who in the autumn purchased his cattle from the stockmen of the interior counties, had ever encouraged the cultivation of the breed. For many years the short horn Durham had been the great cattle of this inland country. It was an old race; old in England when the Scandinavian and the Dane swarmed over the river Tees. But the breed, though excellent, was rather slow to mature and not adapted to severe winters, and the breeder awakened to the needs of his market and casting about for an animal better adapted to his uses chanced upon the Hereford, first imported by the elder Clay of Kentucky. And the Hereford became the chief bovine of the grazier. He was old, too; old on the north side of the river Wye in the tenth century, and ancient of record, it is said, in the law of Howell the Good; but while a fine beef animal, he preserved one defect, the massive horn. Still he maintained his place, until on a certain autumn morning at a fat cattle show in Chicago, the good wife of a powerful Virginia grazier, on a quest for the ideal bullock, pointed down into the stock ring at the splendid Polled-Angus and said, “There he is, but he don't look human.” And there he was indeed, broad, and shiny black, and hornless as a man's palm--nature's answer to the breeder's dream.

The great tawny sun climbed high in the heavens; the heat of the day settled down over the living earth like an invisible mantle; the crisp freshness of the morning breeze had given place to the monotonous hot air of midday. The dust arose in clouds from under the feet of the herd, and the cattle themselves, warm and vexed with the irksome travel, were restless and difficult to control. The great Al-shire and his huge horse moved here and there through the drove, white with dust; while the happy thrall plodded along behind the herd, whistling merrily and turning from time to time to strike some lagging bullock, and shout with childish glee “Go along you fat feller; to-night you will ride on the steam-cars, and to-morrow the British will eat you.” And passing a slight inaccuracy in the matter of time, the witless Zaak was entirely correct. To him the steam-cars were marvels from wonderland, and the British was some far-away gigantic monster with a mighty, insatiate maw.

III

THE young man closed the door to the private writing-room of the club, and coming back to the table drew a chair up beside his companion and sat down.

“Rufus,” he said, “how did you get in so deep?”

“Well,” responded the grazier, looking down at the floor. “I am an ass, Jerry, just a natural ass. I was all right, doing well and living like a lord, until I endorsed for that lumber company. When it grew shaky, I tried to save myself by borrowing money and holding it up until the panic was over, but I could n't do it, and when the thing failed I had the notes to meet. I did n't want to be sued, so I borrowed the money. It was a big sum, almost as big as I was worth, but I thought that the men from whom I borrowed the money would not push me, and that probably I could pull through some way. I might have known that the crash would come, but it is natural, I judge, to postpone the evil day.”

“Have your creditors instituted legal proceedings?” asked the young man.

“Not yet,” replied Alshire. “On Thursday I was at the county seat looking after my taxes, and while there William Farras, who is a local manager for the oil company, took me aside and said that through some business transactions my notes had come into his hands, and added that he hoped that I was in a position to pay them, as he was hard up and would require a considerable sum of money at once. On the way home in the evening I had the conversation with the driller of which I have spoken; and his statement made the scheme as plain as day light. The company believes that the pool is under my land, and, wishing to secure the property, it has bought up my outstanding notes. The plan is to sue me at once, sell the land, and buy it in.”

The giant spoke slowly, the great muscles of his face set, and his eyes hard. He raised his ponderous clenched hand and brought it slowly down on his knee. “I shipped the cattle,” he added, “to prevent their being attached, and I have gone over the whole thing from end to end, and by every devil in hell I don't see any way to stop their game.”

Jerry Van Meter arose and went over to the window. He was mightily affected by the hopeless position of his friend, and in his breast his heart was heavy. The condition of things was reversed. From his very babyhood he had gone to the giant with his troubles, and the giant had always found some way out. Now the man had come to him, and he was helpless. He looked at the huge grazier sitting motionless with his face in his hands, and the tears gathered in his eyes. Van Meter knew too much of the world not to know that the man was ruined. Finally he turned to his companion.

“Rufus,” he said, “we will walk down to my office and see what can be done.”

It was merely a weakling move for delay. In his heart the young man knew that the matter was hopeless.

The two men arose and passed out of the club.

The life of Jerry Van Meter had been crowded with events quite as varied and rapid of incident as that of Sinbad the Sailor. His parents, who resided on a small farm near Rufus Alshire's estate, had died when the child Jerry was quite an infant, and the huge grazier had assumed the guardianship of the youth. Under his direction the boy had been educated, and finally installed as a bank clerk in one of the small towns. But the spirit of adventure was big in the breast of the youthful Jerry, and one morning he closed the ledger carefully and vanished into the Northwest. Here he pulled teeth for an itinerant dentist, drummed for a soap house, and travelled with a circus. But he had a fortunate star, not at all times obscured; and when the boom struck St. Paul, Jerry drifted in, bought far and wide, and carried out with him ten thousand dollars in gold, which he promptly dropped in a bucket-shop in Chicago. A letter to the good genius Alshire brought a check for one hundred dollars and nine pages of advice.

With this money in his pocket, Jerry passed over on to the Pacific coast. Here he mixed drinks in a bar-room, and officiated in the important capacity of night clerk to a restaurant, until his star came up again, and when it did, Jerry chanced on an abandoned claim that netted him seven thousand dollars. He returned to Alshire the one hundred dollars and the well-worn but badly-heeded letter of advice, and set out for the East. In St. Louis he became deeply interested in certain horse races, and ten days later he landed in the Virginias bronzed, bearded, and broke. The giant Alshire laughed at the escapades of this youth until his sides ached, gave him another check and the ancient letter of advice with various amendments, and the restless Mr. Van Meter dropped down into the metropolis of New York. Here his star gave evidences of constancy, and he became an insurance broker and a man of affairs.

The two men walked slowly down the steps of the club and across the busy thoroughfare. As they stepped up or the opposite curb they were startled by a sharp cry, and turning suddenly they saw a little man stumble and fall forward in the street directly in front of an approaching mail wagon. The great horses were almost upon him, bearing down in a long sweeping trot. The driver at the moment was not looking, but it was too late for him to prevent the impending accident even if he had been. The giant Alshire ran out into the street, caught the horses and threw his ponderous weight against the iron bits. The heavy Percherons reared and fell back on their haunches, the tongue of the wagon shot forward, grazing the giant's shoulder, and the wheels stopped for a moment almost against the body of the prostrate man. In that moment Van Meter dragged the hapless pedestrian from beneath the belly of the horses. The giant stepped quickly aside, and the horses, plunging forward heavily on the cobble stones, passed on down the street, while the half-dazed driver did not even look back to ascertain what had really occurred.

The little man wiped the dust from his hat with the sleeve of his coat and looked up at his deliverers.

“Well,” he said, “Randolph Mason came near to losing his clerk. I guess I stumbled on that infernal rail.”

A great light came into the face of Jerry Van Meter. He came up close to the little man and caught him by the shoulder. “Randolph Mason!” he said, “Is Randolph Mason in New York?”

“Yes,” responded the little man. “I am his clerk. Parks is my name. Mr. Mason is here, but----” Then he stopped short.

The now excited Van Meter shook the little man almost roughly by the shoulder.

“Good,” he cried, “good, we must see him at once.”

The clerk Parks looked down at his soiled clothes and the dust on his bruised hands.

“Gentlemen,” he said slowly, “it is against the strict order of the physicians, but, under the circumstances, I don't quite see how I am going to refuse.”

IV

RANDOLPH MASON leaned forward and struck his hand heavily on the arm of his chair.

“Forty thousand,” he said sharply, “you owe that sum, sir?” His face looked old, sunken, and furrowed with heavy dark lines, but his eyes shone under his shaggy brows.

“Yes,” responded the grazier, “fully that much.”

“To secure that amount in cash,” continued Mason, “it will be necessary to deal with some bank or savings institution of which the president or some powerful director is an attorney-at-law. This condition will be found to obtain in almost any one of the small towns of the country, and if my directions are followed strictly, the plan can be carried out and the money secured in a very few hours. The plan is simple and easy. In the first place----”

“But,” said the giant Alshire, “I don't want other men's money. I don't want to commit a crime.”

The veins in the forehead of Randolph Mason grew black with anger.

“Commit a crime!” he cried. “No man who has followed my advice has ever committed a crime. Crime is a technical word. It is the law's name for certain acts which it is pleased to define and punish with a penalty. None but fools, dolts, and children commit crimes.”

“Well,” responded the grazier, “whether the plan you are about to propose is a crime or not, it is certainly a moral wrong, and I have no desire to rob a bank by committing even a moral wrong.”

Randolph Mason arose slowly and pointed his finger at the huge Alshire.

“The old story,” he sneered, “child afraid of a goblin. Moral wrong! A name used to frighten fools. There is no such thing. The law lays down the only standard by which the acts of the citizen are to be governed. What the law permits is right, else it would prohibit it. What the law prohibits is wrong, because it punishes it. This is the only lawful measure, the only measure bearing the stamp and the sanction of the State. All others are spurious, counterfeit, and void. The word moral is a pure metaphysical symbol, possessing no more intrinsic virtue than the radical sign.”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Mason,” said Van Meter thrusting into the conversation, “but I am quite certain that you mistake the request of my friend. He is not attempting to secure any sum of money. He simply desires to retain the title to his land and prevent its sale, until he can determine the extent of its oil production.”

“For what length of time?” asked Mason.

“Well,” said the grazier, “I scarcely know. One year might be time enough, or even less than one year; while, on the other hand, it might require several years. You see, if I can prevent the land from being sold, and keep it in my name until the territory is developed, then if oil is found in paying quantities I can meet all these notes, and if the land is dry I am no worse off. At any rate, I want to hold on to the land and see.”

“Are there judgments of record against you?” inquired Mason.

“Not yet,” replied Alshire, “but Farras is preparing to sue on the notes and rush the sale through. Can I stop him; can I hold the sale off?” There was anxiety in the grazier's voice.

Randolph Mason began to walk to and fro across the room with an unsteady nervous stride.

“Easy,” he muttered, “easy as learning to lie.” Then he stopped by the table and looked flown sharply at the great Alshire.

“Have you two friends,” he asked, “nonresidents of your State, whom you can trust?”

“Yes,” responded the grazier, “Mr. Van Meter here in New York, and Morgan Gaston now in Ohio, they will both stand by me.”

“Then,” said Mason, “listen to me, and do as I advise, and the sale of your property will be as far distant years from to-day as it seems this afternoon. First make an oil lease for a long term, say thirty years, to your non-resident friend of Ohio, giving him all the oil privileges, but, for your own protection in case of the death of the lessee, incorporate in the instrument a clause permitting the lessor the right to annul the lease at any time by the payment of a small sum. Have the instrument show also that the entire compensation for the lease has been fully paid in advance. Then make another lease renting all your remaining property rights to your friend Mr. Van Meter of this city. Have this second lease for a similar term and of similar provisions to the first, and the entire compensation for it likewise paid in advance. Then you have but to record the instruments, employ an attorney, and sit down in the shadow of your house. The hair on your head will have thinned vastly before the litigation over your complicated affairs terminates in a final decree of sale.” Rufus Alshire leaned forward listening eagerly. “But won't Farras sue me,” he asked, “won't he attack the leases?”

“Certainly,” said Mason, “he will at once do one of two things; either he will bring an action at law on the notes, or he will attempt to embrace the whole matter in a chancery suit. If he sues at law, resist and attempt to fight through the superior courts. When he finally obtains a judgment at law in your State, he will be compelled to resort to a suit in chancery for the purpose of selling the land. In either event he must come finally into a court of chancery and include the holders of these leases as parties defendant to his action. When this is done, the non resident lessees are not to appear, and he will be able to obtain service on them only by an order of publication. You alone will fight this chancery suit through the lower and superior courts, and just before a sale of the land is ordered by the court of last resort, one of the non resident lessees mast appear, and by virtue of the statutory provision applying to such cases, file his bill of review and open up the whole matter, enjoin the sale, fight the case over again and again through the superior court. When this new litigation finally draws near to a close and the land is again ordered sold, the remaining non-resident must appear, bring his action in the Circuit Court of the United States, enjoin the sale, and proceed with his fight.

“By this time,” continued Mason, placing his bony hand on the giant's shoulder, “there will probably be gray streaks in your beard, and if you wish to run this litigation on into eternity, you will have only to produce some collateral heir.”

The huge Alshire looked up at the strange man beside him. “Is all this possible?” he asked in astonishment.

Randolph Mason did not at once answer; he walked stumblingly across the room to his chair and sat down by the table. His form was thin and gaunt, and along the border of his forehead the veins were purple and swollen. After a time he turned toward the powerful grazier, his face ugly with a sneer. “To the law,” he said, “all things are possible--even justice.”

V